


Darius Potter

by GossamerGlassJellyfish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GossamerGlassJellyfish/pseuds/GossamerGlassJellyfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if only one thing had changed about Harry Potter - his first and middle name?  Could such a small detail really make that much difference?  Harry James Potter becomes Darius Winslow Potter and from there his childhood pursues a somewhat different route.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the twenty first century.

1.

David Mackenzie

I watched Darius Potter bent quietly over his work, doing his journal entry for the day. He was six years old and in my first grade class. A lot of the other kids teased him, I could tell, despite my best efforts to waylay them - because he was small and skinny and he wore big, baggy, ragged secondhand clothes and broken round wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was a bush of a black rat’s nest, and his knees and elbows were big and knobby. He was a very plain little boy. The scar on his forehead didn’t help.

I noticed other things as well. I noticed how beat-up Darius’s clothes always were, despite the fact that the aunt and uncle who had raised him were corporate suburban people, the uncle a firm director. They claimed Darius ruined the clothes himself - laughing in a tinkling sort of way, saying, “boys will be boys” - but their own son, Dudley Dursley, treated his items with much more contempt than Darius did his, and he always had brand-new, immaculate clothing.

Dudley Dursley also picked on Darius Potter a lot in school. This, too, I tried to stop, to little avail. Dudley had formed a rowdy group of boys around him and they would chase Darius around on the playground, often beating him up. This seemed to be keeping Darius from making any friends. Even now, they were throwing paper balls at the back of his head. Darius would turn around, glaring silently as they snickered, and then go back to his writing.

“Dursley!” I snapped. “Cut it out!” Dudley Dursley gave me a dirty look, but reluctantly went back to pretending to do his schoolwork.

But you couldn’t get Darius to admit to any of this. Whenever he was questioned by a teacher or even by the headmistress herself, he always just frowned down silently and stubbornly at his shoes. I wondered to myself if he was afraid of his aunt and uncle.

It was too bad, because Darius seemed like a good kid. Unlike his cousin Dudley, he always did his schoolwork properly and on time. It was subdued and uninspired, but fair enough work. He never raised his hand in class, but I thought that was more out of a natural sense of reserve and fear of retribution from his cousin than anything. He also might not be encouraged to think or read or ask questions at home. He was quiet, polite, and obedient. I’d pronounced his name wrong the first day of class, calling him, “Day-ree-us” and he’d said nothing. 

Later, after class, he went up to me and tugged on my sleeve. “It’s Dah-ree-us,” he’d said simply.

I was surprised. “I’m sorry, Darius, I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright, Mr Mackenzie,” he’d said. “I just didn’t want to embarrass you in front of all those other kids.”

Another time, a substitute teacher had told me that my class was terrible to her, particularly Dursley and his friends - but Potter had never caused any problems. He’d even hung back to apologize to her on behalf of his cousin after class was over.

I thought I could see the root of the problem. Dudley Dursley was a spoiled little boy. He was a classroom terror who still threw temper tantrums to get what he wanted, and he never bothered to pay any attention to his schoolwork. His bullying was particularly problematic because of how large he was, how unhealthily he ate. You could tell his parents this at student-teacher conferences and they’d defend him to the death, calling him “a bit pudgy” and “misunderstood.”

Yet in that same conference they almost seemed to be looking for reasons to scold Darius, if they even wanted to talk about him at all. He was, after all, not their son. I suspected that they had never entirely wanted to raise him. A grudge against his parents, perhaps. So he never had the best things, he was never indulged, and his cousin was allowed to bully him unfettered.

I felt bad for Darius Potter, but I could see no way in to form a connection with him or help him if he wouldn’t talk to any adults about his problems. We could scold and punish Dudley Dursley till the cows came home and it would be of no avail, because he never got the same kind of treatment at home.

I kept searching for a way in, some way to strike up a conversation with Darius that didn’t involve his family. Perhaps I could help him and mentor him from there. I didn’t find anything, until I was reading a book one day and a thought struck me. 

I ran the after-school programs for the arts at St Grogory’s, our school. I was very interested in the arts, and I often read books about different aspects of the arts to give myself ideas for new things to try with the children I coached. The programs were free, provided by the school itself, and they were one of the only places Dudley Dursley wouldn’t be caught dead stepping into. 

And I began reading about a French jazz composer named Darius Milhaud. Excited, I looked up Darius’s full name as quickly as I could: “Darius Winslow Potter.” 

So I turned to Google and started doing online searches for famous people in the arts with the name Winslow. I found Winslow Homer, an American painter who specialized in marine landscapes.

I had found my way in.

-

The next day at school, I went up to Darius’s desk during a free period where students were talking and doing homework. Darius was sitting in a corner, as usual, alone and ignored.

“Hello, Potter,” I said, and he looked up in surprise.

“... Hello, Mr Mackenzie,” Darius returned after a moment, blinking big green eyes at me from behind his bug glasses. He seemed a little confused.

“I was reading a book the other day, and I found out there’s another Darius named Darius Milhaud who was a famous French jazz composer. He was a musician. And Winslow Homer was a famous American painter - he did sea landscapes. Both of your names are also the names of famous artists. Did you know that?”

Darius shook his head.

“Well, perhaps your parents did,” I suggested.

“I don’t know anything about my parents, Mr Mackenzie,” said Darius. “Just that they died in a car accident when I was a baby. That’s where I got my scar.” He pointed at the lightning bolt shaped cut on his forehead.

“Don’t you ever ask about them?” I wondered, concerned.

Darius looked down. “My aunt and uncle don’t like me asking questions, sir,” he muttered. As I suspected. Suppressing a child’s natural creativity and curiosity should be criminal.

“I see,” I said sympathetically, calm at least on the outside. “Well, Darius, I want you to know that if you ever have a question about anything, you can come straight to me. And if you don’t want to ask me questions in front of your cousin, may I suggest something?”

Darius looked up curiously. I could see hope lying, suppressed, in his eyes. I was encouraged to continue.

“I said your names are the names of artists,” I said. “Well, I run after-school programs in the arts. I don’t think your cousin would be interested in them, but you might like them. A lot of other children will be there, and so will I.”

“I don’t think my aunt and uncle would allow it, sir,” said Darius, more honest than usual I think because he seemed caught off guard.

“Not artsy types, eh?” I said. “Can’t imagine your aunt making a mess painting a gigantic elephant in the living room?”

Darius giggled and shook his head, the first time I had ever seen him smile or laugh.

“Why don’t I talk to them,” I said. “I’ll call and make an appointment. And I’ll reinforce that you haven’t done anything wrong,” I said, when Darius looked nervous.

“Alright,” he said at last. “Good luck, sir.” This statement was unusually fervent. I turned away and he said, “Mr Mackenzie.” I looked back in surprise. “I don’t think I’ll be any good at this art stuff,” he muttered, looking embarrassed. “That’s not really my… thing.”

“What is your thing?” I asked.

“I… I don’t know, sir,” Darius realized in surprise. “I don’t really have one.”

I smiled. “I think you’ll surprise yourself, Darius,” I said. “And remember: no one’s ever good at the beginning. That’s what lessons are for.”

-

Mr and Mrs Dursley sat down across the desk from me in the student-teacher conference.

“If that boy has done something wrong,” said Mrs Dursley, immediately, “I swear I’ll punish him -”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” I assured them, sitting down.

“The boy is a terror,” said Mr Dursley solemnly. “There’s no need to go easy on him just because he’s a child, Mr Mackenzie.”

“Actually, I’ve noticed more problems from bullying in your son,” I offered mildly, and when they began to look angry and defensive I said, “But I’m not here to talk about Dudley. I’m here to talk about Darius.

“He’s having some trouble making friends in school. I thought it might be nice if he joined the after-school arts program I run. But he wanted me to okay it with you first.”

I sat back, and waited for their objections.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir,” said Mrs Dursley timidly, suddenly looking even smaller and skinnier than usual, glancing sideways at her husband. Anger had crossed his pouchy purple face.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I - I don’t approve of all this - art rubbish,” said Vernon Dursley gruffly.

I had never liked Vernon Dursley and this solidified that, but acting angry would get me nowhere in this conversation. “I assure you, it’s a perfectly healthy program for a child to have,” I said. “He will get to meet other children, form good social skills, and learn critical thinking. Talking to other people may be able to help him learn how to socialize better with other people, and the kind of thought required in art may improve his grades in school. 

“And not all art has to be off the ground imaginative. We tend to allow the children to develop in directions of their own choosing. So if your nephew wants to paint still lifes or learn classical music, that’s all perfectly fine with us. It would look good on his reports and when he talks to other adults.

“I think I see the problem,” I added sympathetically. “It’s money, isn’t it? The program is entirely free. It’s paid for by the school.”

“NO! No!” they said immediately. “Money is not a problem!” I could see them looking torn.

The thing about the Dursleys, I had already noticed, was that they were obsessed with looking normal, with never being the subject of gossip. It was probably why they disapproved of imagination. So turning that against them, and making it seem like Darius doing after-school art would be best for their reputation, and like not sending him would make them look poor, was the quickest way to get into their good graces. Pointing out that not all art had to be imaginative would lower their defenses - then I could work on Darius’s imagination in secret later.

“Sir, I thank you for your time,” boomed Mr Dursley, standing, “but I really don’t think -”

“But what could be the problem?” I asked, pretending to look politely confused. “What good reason could you come up with for not allowing a child to attend a free after-school program? I must say, it’s all very odd.”

They froze at the last word, just as I had intended.

“Did the boy put you up to this?” Mr Dursley asked suddenly.

“Darius? Oh, no,” I said, puzzled and a little disturbed, raising an eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, I brought it up to him.”

Dr Dursley stood there, his temple ticking, his tiny dark eyes working on some sort of internal debate. 

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, Vernon,” said Mrs Dursley at last.

And Mr Dursley relented. “Alright,” he said suspiciously, as if sensing that he’d just been had but was unsure what to do about it. “He’ll be there directly tomorrow after school. And if he ever doesn’t show up or does a single thing wrong, you tell us immediately,” Mr Dursley added fiercely.

“Exactly,” said Mrs Dursley prissily, standing and straightening her flowery dress with her lace-gloved hands, lips pursed. “He is to put in a good showing.”

“Of course,” I said, inwardly deciding to do nothing of the kind.

-

Darius Potter

I was called out of my cupboard-bedroom and before my aunt and uncle that night, and to my surprise, they had agreed to Mr Mackenzie’s idea. How he had managed that, I had no idea.

“We want to see all your finished work,” said Aunt Petunia sternly. “And you are to do nothing imaginative. Still lifes. Classical music. That sort of thing.”

I tried to imagine myself performing classical music and I really couldn’t. I didn’t think I’d be any good at art at all. I’d never exactly thought of myself as an artist. Still, Mr Mackenzie said my parents had named me after a famous artist and a famous musician… would they have wanted this? Had they been artists themselves? Was that why the Dursleys never talked about them?

I liked the idea of having a connection to my parents, quite apart from being able to spend time with other children completely apart from all three of the Dursleys or Mrs Figg, my old cat lady babysitter. Even if it was just at school, I still felt especially lucky.

“Boy! Answer your aunt!” Uncle Vernon snapped, and I realized I still hadn’t spoken.

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” I said, ducking my head.

“Duddy?” Aunt Petunia turned sweetly to her son. “Would you like to try art, too?”

I froze in horror.

But Dudley didn’t even look away from where he was watching television, his many chins wobbling as he snacked. “No!” he said. “I don’t like school and I don’t want to do any of that nerdy, artsy stuff!” I relaxed in relief.

Uncle Vernon nodded sternly. “That’s my boy,” he said gruffly. “Perfectly sensible.” Then he turned to glare at me, as if to emphasize how not perfectly sensible I was.

But I was still just happy Dudley wouldn’t be coming with me. Whole hours after school, out of the house and away from the Dursleys and away from Dudley’s bullying, away from my cupboard, away from Mrs Figg’s smelly old cat-ridden living room… away from everything.

I decided that even if I turned out to be horrible at art, and even if I made absolutely no friends, I would never stop going unless they kicked me out. Besides… hadn’t Mr Mackenzie said everyone was bad at art at first?

-

So I went to the set of empty classrooms where the after-school programs were held the next afternoon after school, feeling nervous. I practically ran as soon as the bell rang, in order to get there as soon as possible and not be late. It was as if through not being tardy I could make up for how not artistic I was. Besides, there was my aunt and uncle’s wrath to consider.

I was a good runner - small, light, and speedy, and quite experienced from running away from Dudley and his gang on the playground all the time - and so I made it there practically before anyone else. I sat in a corner in the big main room, and watched it slowly fill up with students of all ages. A few gave me curious looks, but no one talked to me.

The main room was long and wide and filled with wood desks, with big windows letting light onto the podium at the front of the room. Soon enough, Mr Mackenzie arrived at the podium and said, “Today, drawing and painting will be in room 26-B. Music will be in 27-A, as always. Creative writing will be in 24-C. Theater will be in 32-B. New students, please come meet with me.”

I walked up to Mr Mackenzie. It was the middle of the year and I seemed to be the only newcomer. I looked around myself anxiously, but Mr Mackenzie seemed to have expected this.

“Well, Darius,” he said, leaning down to my level, “here’s how this works. We have a teacher for art, a teacher for music, a teacher for theater, and a teacher for creative writing. The music lessons always take place in the music classroom, but the other three switch around from time to time, which is why you always come here first.

“We recommend that you specialize in two of these four areas. One you can join three times a week, the other you can join twice a week.”

“... Do you have to own an instrument to join music?” I asked.

“No.” Mr Mackenzie shook his head. “Little Whinging is a very wealthy area, and we’re blessed with good funding from benefactors - rich people give us money,” he added in amusement when I looked confused. “So we have many school instruments which don’t leave the classroom that you can practice on.”

I nodded. “Music,” I decided. “And art.” I remembered what my name was supposed to mean. I also thought I’d be rubbish at creative writing and theater.

“Very well.” Mr Mackenzie brightened and stood straight, pleased. He was a friendly man with an open face and a quiet, sympathetic manner, tall, thin, and balding. “Let’s go introduce you to the teachers.”

I was afraid he was going to introduce me in front of everyone, with all those eyes staring at me, but instead he stood beside me at each classroom doorway until the teacher came over to talk to us.

The art classroom was filled with sheets of paper and students making a mess doing everything from painting to drawing to sculpting. The teacher was a vast older woman who absent-mindedly had a pencil left in her bun of grey hair.

“Mrs Cheeney,” said Mr Mackenzie, “this is Darius Potter. He’ll be doing art here with you from now on. He’s in my first grade class.”

Mrs Cheeney leaned down and smiled at me. “And what kind of art do you want to do, Darius?”

I looked around. I couldn’t imagine myself painting or sculpting, but drawing seemed alright. “I want to draw,” I said at last. 

“Alright, and with what kinds of materials? Pencil, colored pencil, charcoal…?”

I thought of angular drawings full of big, bold black lines. “Charcoal,” I decided. “And maybe pencil sometimes too.”

“Alright,” said Mrs Cheeney. “Here’s how it will work. I’ll set you up with an exercise, and stop by periodically to see how you’re doing. If you ever have any questions, just ask me. Now what kind of drawing do you want to do? Do you know?”

“His aunt and uncle want him to do realistic still lifes. Not too keen on the idea of art and imagination in the first place -” Mr Mackenzie began quietly.

And all of a sudden I felt like I had to speak up. “I want to do angular cartoon figures,” I said loudly, and they turned to look at me in surprise. “Can I learn both styles?” I asked. “One to hide and one to show my aunt and uncle?”

I was taking a big risk here. This could get back to my family. But I didn’t like the idea of sitting around for years drawing bowls of fruit.

To my relief, they looked sympathetic. “Of course, Darius,” said Mrs Cheeney.

Then we went by the music room, which was really a large set of interconnected classrooms, each dedicated to a certain kind of instrument. Children would take turns practicing on the instruments, using a little sign-in sheet posted to each classroom door. There was even a room for singing, which I felt much too shy and uncertain to try. It was all run by a thin Asian woman with long, straight black hair named Miss Kwan, who seemed surprised when she heard what I wanted.

“Classical music,” she said. “So what kind of instrument do you want to learn?”

I thought about it, running through instruments in my head. None of them really seemed to suit me - certainly none of the classical ones at least. The guitar would have been cool, but no go. It had to be classical. I was about to think this had been a bad idea altogether, when I came to the last two instruments in my head - piano and violin. 

Neither of them would be so bad.

“Can I do two?” I said. “The piano one day of the week, and the violin another day of the week?”

“Yes,” said Miss Kwan, looking surprised again. “Very few small children choose those two instruments, so they’re free virtually all the time. I’ll teach you how to read sheet music and set you up with exercises, then leave and have you work on them. And eventually we’ll build our way up to songs, okay? Perhaps eventually you could learn to write some songs yourself.”

I nodded. I thought of Darius Milhaud. “Can I learn jazz?” I asked. “In addition to classical? My aunt and uncle want me to focus on classical, but I want to learn jazz too.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Kwan. “Both of them are very good styles of music.”

I walked back outside with Mr Mackenzie, and said wonderingly, “Everyone’s so accepting of hiding things from my aunt and uncle.”

“One of the things you’ll learn quickly as an artist is that it’s horrible to try to confine someone else’s art,” said Mr Mackenzie. “They can sympathize. Here, you’re among friends, Darius. Here, you’re among people who value creativity in a way that your aunt and uncle don’t.

“Eventually in life, you’ll learn that there are far worse things to do than to help a small child hide what kind of art they want to do from their aunt and uncle.”


	2. Chapter 2

2.

David Mackenzie

I didn’t know if Darius had noticed, but he was a far better artist than he’d originally given himself credit for.

He’d only been doing art for a few months, yet in a short time he’d improved. Darius was intelligent and focused - now free to ask questions, he began to flourish, slowly getting used to the concept of improving through questions and mistakes. He’d seemed a little uncertain at first, but then his teachers had gotten older students to help him - a stroke of genius I hadn’t thought of - and after that he’d gotten better. A bit more confident under their encouragement.

Darius was very quiet and expressionless, which also worked in his favor. It was worrying that he still wasn’t making friends, but there was a certain advantage to it - to being able to work silently in a corner for hours on a single piece or exercise, paying no attention to the chatter around him. He had no unruly friends to distract him from his studies. This was both a good and a bad thing.

It was remarkable how much of his personality came out in his work, however. I’d discussed this with his music and art teachers. Yes, his still lifes and classical music pieces were all perfectly acceptable and even lovely - Darius was capable of putting countless hours of practice into a physical art without tiring, staying till darkness fell and someone had to drive him home, a useful skill that I suspected came partially from a bad home life - but his other pieces were where his true personality came out.

Darius’s drawings were full of angry, vitriolic satire coupled with the kind of intelligence, observation, and imagination of someone many years his senior. The negativity in his life became angular cartoons full of fury and bitterness. He did eventually move on to using colored pencils and markers with his pencil drawings, and we detected in him an extraordinary inclination for the slightest changes in hue, shade, and texture. He was always careful to practice coloring a piece until it was just right, perfectly inside the lines. He would accept nothing less. Much of his art was surreal, imaginative, with impossible things occurring and some things morphing into others.

His music, meanwhile, took a unique turn. Miss Kwan worked with him on it tirelessly. He moved from classical and jazz to developing his own unique sound somewhere in between the two, a sound that had dark, quiet, tinkling undertones - he moved immediately toward writing his own music. Darius was good at understanding and exploring sound, though not always as good at the technical terms for what he was hearing in his head. Soon he wanted to put words to match the tone of the music he was putting forth, but he was nervous about singing around other people. So Miss Kwan moved with him from singing on his own in the piano room, to singing in harmony with others, to singing on his own. Darius had a soft, smooth, soothing voice, capable of hidden depths of emotion. Miss Kwan admitted to me that part of why she worked with him so often was because he had a lot of raw talent. His lyrics were sometimes disturbing, the quiet and brutally honest reminiscences of someone I suspected had already experienced more than his share in life. 

Darius said in his art what he couldn’t through his words. And after being told to practice saying things in a way that they hadn’t been said before, he became even better. He was good at the shock factor, at disguising stunning things in quiet tones.

He didn’t have time to practice creative writing on top of everything else in his schedule, so to help him in his songwriting, I recommended he check out books full of poetry and songs from the library. He got a library card, and I would watch him hide countless books in the bottom of his book bag, probably only to be read in secret. This saddened me.

Still, at least he was reading, so I struck up a rapport with him and he began using part of his after school time to ask questions related to lessons in school. I explained concepts to him, and recommended books for further reading. I moved him slowly from nonfiction to fiction, explaining words and ideas to him that he didn’t understand.

I was on an ultimate mission to slowly make him a bookworm, something he took surprisingly well to. His grades shot up and began improving thoroughly, and I sent home a letter almost weekly intimating how excellently Darius was doing in school and how well he was performing in the after school program.

Just to emphasize to his aunt and uncle that this was not in vain.

-

Darius Potter

I had to hide the evidence of many parts of it that I really enjoyed - had to hide the books I got from the library, the songs I wrote, my jazz sheet music, the cartoon drawings I really cared about - but still, the after school program had become a sort of safe haven for me. It felt like home. The big set of classrooms was a comfort to me, with Mr Mackenzie, Miss Kwan, and Mrs Cheeney being the only ones who didn’t treat me badly, with none of the other students bothering me or making fun of me.

The books went in a hidden compartment in the bottom of my bookbag, as did the art. I would then hide it all underneath my bed in my cupboard-bedroom, which no one ever entered anyway, and work on my enjoyments long after everyone else had gone to bed, by the light of the naked light bulb inside the spider-ridden cupboard under the stairs.

I fell in love with imagination and originality and creativity, but I had to be careful. There were a few harrowing moments where I was almost found out. One inkling to the Dursleys that I was doing anything imaginative, and that would be an end to all of it.

I showed them the things they would approve of - quiet landscapes, classical music recordings - to try to lull them into a false sense of security.

I had discovered I was better at art than I’d thought I would be. Slowly, I gained confidence in my creativity, my originality, my imagination. My teachers had encouraged me to go where my idle thoughts led me, or where I felt my life was going, and from there I had found I had more to say than I’d thought I would have. There was a bit of trouble at first, but then Miss Kwan encouraged me to think of one isolated incident - one good or bad thing that had happened to me today - and to do a work based on that. I made baby steps from there, slowly finding my voice and putting it through into my work. Some of the thoughts and feelings I expressed, I hadn’t even known I’d had, they were so repressed.

It was cathartic, in a sense - both the part of my art that would please my aunt and uncle, and the part of my art that was just a release for me. Art, I found, combined elegance with honesty, and the fact that I actually seemed to be good at this both surprised me and made me a little proud of myself. There was at least one thing, I thought, that I was good at. But even in school I’d been doing better - perhaps I was smarter than I’d given myself credit for as well?

Slowly, I began to take pride in my good grades.

Dudley made fun of me all the time, of course. He called me a pansy and a nerd, and so did the rest of his gang; they added those insults to the rest when they found me and beat me up on the playground. It wasn’t really a big step up or down from where I’d been before, so I found that I didn’t mind all that much.

It was worth it.

-

I went up to my Aunt Petunia one day.

“Aunt Petunia,” I said, “I’m going to be in a music concert recital next week. I need an outfit for the concert.”

She turned from where she’d been baking in the kitchen. “And you think we’re going to spend money on you?” she snapped. “It’s enough that we keep you as it is! Go in your usual clothes! Who will notice anyway?”

“But Aunt Petunia -!”

“Leave, boy.” She turned back to her latest sugared violet pudding. And that was an end of it. Uncle Vernon, I suspected, would have reacted to the suggestion even worse, but he was at work.

I walked away feeling nervous, past Dudley wolfing down his second lunchtime dessert in the kitchen. 

Great. It was my first big recital, and I was terrified enough as it was, and now I learned I was going to go in Dudley’s beat-up, baggy old clothes.

I tried not to think about how I was going to look at my first big concert. It was too depressing. I didn’t even have any friends I could ask to help.

-

I practiced extra-hard at my music, as if to make up for how I’d look on the night of. Then the unthinkable happened.

Dudley and his gang were chasing me at recess, as usual - and the wormy little shrimp Piers ducked around a building, came at me from the front, slid under my feet, and tripped me.

I fell flat on my face and they caught me, whirling me around. Piers held me down and Dudley began punching me, making my nose bleed, giving me a black eye, breaking the tape holding my glasses together at the bridge again.

“Nerd!” he sneered. “Freak! Pansy! Have fun looking like shit at the recital, you little twerp.”

Finally, when they were done with me, they walked away snickering and left me lying there on the ground. As usual, there was no hope of fighting them. There were five of them and, excepting Piers, they were all bigger than me.

I felt dread form in the pit of my stomach. This meant another silent trip to the headmistress’s office with Mr Mackenzie, but more importantly… no way all of this would heal by tonight. How was I going to look at the recital?

-

The night of the recital came. I went to the big auditorium on the school grounds, walked backstage, and the minute I was in the door everyone stopped and stared at me. The room went dead silent. Everyone else looked perfect and was dressed nicely in black. It was humiliating.

“Darius!” said Miss Kwan in worry, hurrying over. “What happened?”

I looked down. “Got into a fight,” I muttered at my shoes. “Sorry, Miss Kwan.” She’d been working really hard with me and I felt like I’d let her down.

Miss Kwan looked at me sympathetically for a moment. I had a bruised nose, a black eye, broken glasses, and horrible, baggy old clothes.

“It’s quite alright, Darius,” she said, patting me on the shoulder. “You’re an excellent musician. That’s the important thing.”

I still felt bad.

I waited backstage for my turn to go on, and my legs felt like jelly, my breath coming in short gasps. I tried to make my freakout as silent as I could. I wasn’t really that good a musician. What if I went out there and bombed? What if I finished and nobody clapped, and they all just sat there and stared at me?

At last, Miss Kwan went up to the microphone in front of the collected audience, and she said, “Our next child will be Darius Potter. He will be performing two classical music pieces, one on the piano and one on the violin, and he will then be singing one short choir song in Latin.”

I swallowed. That was me. I walked out on stage, and winced when I heard a few gasps. I must look godawful. There was a thick silence.

I looked into the dark shadows of the audience, and saw my aunt and uncle sitting there. New terror filled me. Of course they would come - it was yet another form of artistic control.

So I had to perform well.

I went over and sat down in front of the piano - I started playing - and then suddenly I forgot it all. It was always this way with my art. I started, and I immediately felt better; it flowed naturally, it was wonderful. I lost myself in the music, and I only came back to my senses when I realized I had played the last note, leaving it ringing.

There was a pause - and then a thunderous round of applause. I smiled, flushed and pleased, standing and bowing. The applause increased.

Then I took up the violin Miss Kwan had put in the corner, put it into the correct position, and went up to the microphone. I paused - then reached up and pulled the microphone down to the correct height.

“I’m small,” I said matter of factly into the microphone, and there was some scattered laughter. “My next piece will be on the violin.”

More confident this time, I began - and again, it was like being swept away. I’d wondered if that sensation would transfer over into live performance. It turned out it did. When I finished, there was another thunderous round of applause.

I put down the violin. “My last piece will be a choir song,” I said, hands behind my back. I took a deep breath, and began singing - softly at first, then with more confidence as nobody threw tomatoes at me. I listened to my own voice, and realized I was doing pretty well. That was unexpected. 

Miss Kwan had convinced me to do a singing piece. “You have a lovely voice and you should show it off,” she’d said, making me blush, pleased, though still worried. We’d talked and agreed the one kind of singing my aunt and uncle would not object to was solemn choir singing. I chose a song in Latin to give myself a bit of a challenge.

I’d worked very hard on it, and so when I got a standing ovation at the end, I beamed, feeling flushed and exultant. I bowed low, and the audience clapped harder.

Buzzed with relief, surprise, and excitement, I managed the walk off stage before collapsing down into a chair and laughing quietly to myself.

-

Petunia Dursley

Our nephew stood out, though not necessarily in the good way. That was all I registered when the students and parents stood around outside talking at the end of the concert that night.

When Darius had walked onstage, the collective gasp had been obvious - his clothes were much plainer than everyone else’s, he looked slovenly and poor, and he looked like he’d just been physically abused. Then he’d done well - even I could admit to that. And the enthusiastic audiences had just eaten that combination of talent and pity right up.

I wasn’t sure if the boy had done it on purpose, but I knew one thing: this could not continue. Vernon and I shared a look as we heard the whispers around us, mostly from parents.

“Did you see that Potter boy -?”

“Poor thing -”

“Yes, and he’s so talented too, it really is a shame. What on earth was his family thinking -?”

“Do you think they’re hitting him -?”

I felt disgust curl up within me, disgust with the boy, but the disgust mingled with the worry and fear of looking odd. Then a parent actually came up to us.

“Are you having money problems?” the interfering mother asked bluntly. “I will gladly pay for an outfit for that boy’s concert performances.” People had stopped talking around us to watch. To our horror, she continued, “And who on earth beat that boy up? That person should be absolutely ripped into!”

Vernon cleared his throat. “We had no idea this was happening,” he lied. “But rest assured we shall… take care of it.” It didn’t help that as he spoke, Vernon looked pained, like the words made him physically ill.

Just then, Darius walked up to us and I said coldly, “Let’s go home. We have something we need to discuss.”

Darius lowered his head.

-

We gathered Dudley and Darius before us in the living room, and I took a deep, fortifying breath. “Duddy,” I said, “you must stop hitting your cousin. If I ever see that you’ve hit your cousin again, I will…” My voice trembled. “I will ground you.”

Darius looked up in disbelief. Dudley stared at us with big eyes - and then the poor boy began wailing and crying.

I wanted so badly to comfort him, but then I thought of all the gossip this had engendered and I held firm. “I know you were just teasing your cousin,” I said loudly, staring straight ahead of myself, over his sobs. “But you must stop hitting him. No, Duddy, I’m serious. Duddy -”

“Boy, listen to your mother!” Vernon barked. “Shut up!”

Dudley stopped crying in surprise. He and Darius both looked stunned.

“Do you have any idea how you made us look tonight?” Vernon barked. “Do you have any idea how people will talk, after the way Darius looked walking out there onto that stage? Dudley, you’re my son and I love you, but one more punch or kick and I’ll punish you myself!”

Dudley fell silent, just sitting there as his whole world changed underneath him.

I walked up to Darius and stared down at him coldly. “I will buy you a nice black suit for music recitals and art galleries,” I said reservedly. “You are to wear it, completely clean, each time you have a show or a performance.”

“... Thank you, Aunt Petunia,” said Darius softly.

I sniffed, feeling distaste and discomfort in my mouth. “I didn’t do it for you,” I said, and marched off.

I was as good as my word. No more punches, and a concert suit. That was all.

-

Darius Potter

I wore my black suit and looked much better at my next art gallery, where I showed off a few of my colored landscapes and portrait sketches. All the art was in a long hallway at St Grogory’s. I stood next to my pieces, all of which were signed, rather proud of my work.

It wasn’t in my favorite style, but I’d worked hard on it and I felt pleased each time someone walking by gave me a new compliment.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were also there, and they became more and more smug each time someone came by and complimented my work. They began claiming me with pride for the first time in my life. “Yes, that’s my nephew’s work,” they would say, hand on my shoulder.

There was a professional photographer hired by the school, and the three of us took a picture together at my first gallery, next to my work. The normality and togetherness in the photo was all an illusion, but the Dursleys were good with illusions and they put the photograph in the living room as a talking point, so they could brag about me to guests at dinner parties. The professional framed photographs of a solemn art recital and a black suit looked right at home, amidst the lovely white carpets, flat screen television, and flowers in ugly little vases sitting on end tables.

Slowly, pictures of me at concerts and art galleries joined pictures of Dudley in the living room. None of my photos were on the all important gleaming mantel piece above the beautiful red-brick fireplace - that position was reserved for Dudley - but they were there, nonetheless. Evidence that I existed.

-

The next day before school, Dudley and his gang approached me. Dudley got all up in my face on the front steps before the main school building. The children around us paused, watching warily, waiting for me to be hit.

“Hey, freak,” Dudley hissed. “You think you can just stand out here with everyone else, do you?”

“Remember what your Mum said,” I answered coolly, so quietly only my cousin could hear me, and Dudley’s face twisted.

Then he shoved past me resentfully and trudged up the stairs to the school building, his confused and uncertain gang behind him.

My God, I thought, my mind swirling with relief. It had actually worked! The other people around me seemed as surprised as I was.

Slowly, my reputation at school changed in two ways. I was still silent, still ugly, still bizarrely dressed, but some things did change. First, that odd Darius Potter was no longer a walking bully target - he had somehow gotten the fearsome Dudley Dursley to leave him alone, and no one wanted to figure out how the hard way. And second, even more surprising, that odd Darius Potter was actually a talented and sophisticated classical musician and artist. He got good grades, too, better than almost anyone’s.

Soon enough, people began writing off my oddity as genius artistic eccentricity. I went from being sneered at, to being, almost more oddly… a subject of silent intimidation.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Darius Potter

“Hello. Darius Potter, right?”

I looked up in surprise. Standing there were an auburn-haired boy, his hands in his pockets, and a girl with long, straight brown hair and fashionable pink clothes. The girl had spoken to me. She was smiling.

“Yes,” I said, caught off guard. “It’s Darius.” Like everyone didn’t already know. “You’re Samantha Burns and August Fletcher.”

“Wow, you remember, I’m impressed,” said Samantha cheerfully. 

“You’re both in my class and you also take both music and art like me,” I said, shrugging. “I just… noticed.” I looked shyly down at the charcoal drawing I’d been working on.

“Observant,” said Samantha. “I like your work.” She indicated to the charcoal drawing.

“It’s not my best,” I said honestly.

“A perfectionist. That can be a good thing. But you’ve got to own your own work, Potter,” said Samantha.

“Yeah, come on, man, you’re making us all look bad,” August joked, smiling uneasily - August Fletcher was almost as quiet as me and he seemed to do everything uneasily - and I smiled despite myself.

“Look,” I said at last, “not that I’m not glad for the company, but… what are you doing here? In case you haven’t noticed, nobody ever talks to me.” I indicated to the rest of the art students my age, all of whom gave me a wide berth.

“We noticed, and I decided we’re going to change that,” said Samantha decisively, sitting down with her art supplies. She was a perky, preppy, fashionable person, but she struck me as someone who had a surprising hard streak. “I’m Samantha. You can call me Sam.” She stuck out her hand, all business.

At last, I shook it, smiling and respectful. “Darius,” I returned. “Glad to meet you.”

“August,” said August, shaking my hand as well and sitting down on my other side.

“So how do you guys know each other?” I asked curiously. I didn’t dislike the idea of making friends, despite my reputation and my outward demeanor, and I was trying to keep the conversation going.

“We’re neighbors,” said August. “Sam and I have been friends since we were really small.”

“You do pottery and play the guitar,” I said, pointing at August, “and you do calligraphy and play the flute,” I added, pointing at Samantha.

“Correct!” said Sam, smiling. “We’re not quite as well known as you, of course,” she added teasingly. “Everyone knows what Darius Potter can do.”

“I’m not well known for any of the right things,” I said, shrugging, giving a crooked, wry sort of smile.

“So make yourself well known, and then focus people’s attention on the right things,” said Sam matter of factly. “You’re lucky to have attention as it is. That’s what popularity is all about.”

“Sam knows this sort of thing,” said August. “Art lessons were her idea, but they turned out to be surprisingly fun. I’m just along for the ride.” He gave a gentle, kind, easygoing sort of smile.

“I know the feeling,” I reflected. “I was also convinced to do art lessons by someone else. Good thing, too. They’ve been good for me.”

“You have loads of natural talent,” said Sam, nodding. I was about to thank her, but she plowed ahead brightly, “Oh! You should have lunch with us at the cafeteria tomorrow. It’s no good for you to sit in the corner by yourself all moody and brooding.” She smiled, teasing again.

“Er - yeah, that’d be great,” was all I could say sheepishly, scratching at my head. I could see what August meant. Samantha Burns was a whirlwind and she pulled everyone else along for the ride.

-

The next day during recess, I went to use the bathroom. I walked back out, and my heart stopped. 

Dudley had cornered Samantha and August in a corner of the playground, his gang behind him. “So you think you can be friends with the little freak, do you?” he asked, smirking, and they looked cautious and afraid -

Angry, I strode over and stepped between my cousin and my new friends. “Get out of my face,” I snarled into his, quiet, cool, and hostile. “You stay away from them.”

“Or you’ll do what?” Dudley mocked me.

“Oh? And what will you do?” I asked, a dark sort of smile forming over my expression.

Dudley’s face worked - but he backed away. “Come on,” he said, faux calm. “Let’s leave the freaks to band together. They’re not worth my time.”

“Sorry about that,” I said once they’d left, turning to Samantha and August, wincing. “Just… stick to me when we’re hanging out. He won’t hurt me.”

“That was very brave of you, Darius,” said Samantha quietly.

“Yeah. Thanks for sticking up for us, man,” said August, nodding, respect in his eyes.

We walked off together, and that’s how I gained two new friends. My protection of them, which continued throughout our school career, had cemented our friendship.

Dudley teased us, of course, calling us stupid names, trying to trip us in class. But he was forbidden from physically harming us - August and Samantha stuck too close to me - and so it just made him look stupid. Eventually, in his tiny mind, Dudley seemed to figure this out and his bullying moved on to more interesting targets - more vulnerable targets.

Darius Potter, Samantha Burns, and August Fletcher became a close-knit threesome at St Grogory’s. Close friends were one thing I’d never thought I’d have, but all of a sudden I had them.

“Congratulations, Darius,” said Mr Mackenzie, smiling slyly, the next time he saw me. “Glad to see you’re doing so well.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, and I meant it. Mr Mackenzie had done more for me than words could express.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Darius Potter

“You sleep in a cupboard?” Sam asked disbelievingly. “I thought your family had money!”

“They do,” I said darkly. “But they don’t like me as much as they do their son. They must not have liked my parents, either, because they won’t tell me anything about them. I don’t even know what they looked like.”

I must have seemed upset, because August added softly, “I’m sorry, Darius.”

Samantha was more intent on getting information. “And they don’t feed you?”

“They feed me enough to keep me alive. Not any more than that. They don’t starve me or anything, but I’m never allowed to eat as much as I’d like. And certainly no dessert.”

“Is that why you dress so sloppily? Because they don’t give you proper clothing?” said Samantha, indignant.

“Yes. I don’t really own any good clothing aside from that one suit,” I admitted. “Most of my clothes are old hand-me-downs from Dudley once he was through with them.”

“What do you own?” said August, frowning.

“Not much.” I shrugged. “You guys know, I don’t even own a cell phone. Let alone a computer or anything important like that.”

My friends seemed disturbed, and that was to be expected. I didn’t actually think anything would come of it.

-

Samantha Burns

I went home that evening, to where my mother was tending to my baby sister in her high chair in the kitchen. I was still shocked by how awfully a nice boy like Darius was treated.

“Mum,” I said, biting my lip, “can I talk to you about something?”

Disconcerted was not usually a word used to describe me, so when my mother saw my face, she paused, frowning. “Of course, what on earth’s the matter?”

I told her about Darius. “And it’s awful, because Darius is really nice! He gets good grades and he’s super artistic and he’s really polite and a great friend! And his family treats him terribly!” I said passionately.

“I didn’t even know that about the Dursleys,” said my mother. “That’s terrible. I don’t know if it technically qualifies as abuse - perhaps one could make a case for the cupboard, but other than that I’m not sure. I don’t know if it would fly with the authorities. But we have to help him somehow.

“I know!” she said, looking up. “Why don’t we take Darius out shopping and buy him some things ourselves? We certainly have the money for it.” Both my own and August’s parents were very wealthy. “That way I’ll have a chance to meet him. I’d like to get to know this poor boy.”

I called August and he admitted, “My parents had the same idea. My older brothers were picking on me, but even they stopped and looked more serious when I told them about Darius.”

“So we’re on?” I said determinedly. “Let’s take Darius out shopping.” My eyes gleamed. “I was going to anyway. He needs a new look.”

-

Darius Potter

I was surprised when my friends grabbed me by the arms and manhandled me out to a strange car the next afternoon.

“We’re taking you to the mall and buying you new things and there’s nothing you can do to stop us!” said Sam.

“If you won’t come on your own, I’ve been told to use force,” August joked. 

“Well - well, you don’t have to -” I stammered, blushing.

“It’s alright, Darius,” said August. “Both our families have plenty of money.”

I was pulled into the back of the car, Samantha on my left side and August on my right, and still in a daze, I was whisked off to the mall.

“Hello, Darius,” a woman smiled from the driver’s seat. “I’m Samantha’s Mum.”

“And I’m August’s Dad,” said the man in the passenger seat brightly, waving.

I waved back uncertainly, still a bit confused.

The two parents asked me questions about myself, which I answered as politely and as best I could, on the drive to the mall. The place was vast - several gleaming floors filled with gigantic, fancy shops lined with shop windows.

“You - you don’t have to spend all this money -” I said awkwardly.

“We already covered that,” said August firmly.

“Don’t worry, Darius, we’re happy to do it,” said Samantha’s mother kindly. Both parents were dressed even more nicely than Samantha and August always were.

“First, I’m going to teach you about fashion,” said Samantha, grabbing my arm and marching away with her nose in the air.

“Fashion?” I said, following her, bewildered.

“Despite what everyone has always told you, you’re not ugly, Darius,” said Samantha. “No one is, really. It’s all about taking what you’ve been given and showing it off to its best effect. That’s just easier for some people than it is for others.”

“And for me it’s hard,” I said flatly.

“Only until you’ve mastered a few key concepts,” said Samantha crisply. 

“Look, I’m not really good at all this -”

“That’s what you have me for. Stop whining, Darius.” She glared at me over her shoulder.

I fell silent.

Samantha taught me about color complexions, face shapes, and body types. Apparently, if you learned what yours were and dressed and cut your hair according to that, you somehow became more attractive. I was a little skeptical at first, but I went along with it because my friends were being so nice and generous. 

So Samantha and her Mom taught me about my different supposed beauty types, and gave me a brand-new look.

“You have wonderful shiny thick black hair. Messy can be a good thing, but you have to be able to work it to its best effect. And you have a pale diamond face shape with these really nice, delicate features, so right now your current haircut is horrible for you on all counts. Let’s try to cut your hair, and work with the mess instead of taming it.”

I got a short on sides, more volume on top haircut, artfully messy, instead of untamed messy or tamed and smooth. 

Then they got me contacts to replace my glasses.

“You have these really nice almond shaped bright green eyes. You have to be able to show them off!”

Then they got me lots of slim, long sleeved black shirts and pants. Sam told me I was a Winter, and talked about and pointed out the other colors that would look good on me, but I wasn’t sure I was really ready to rock royal purple yet so I stuck with black. Black, apparently, looked really good on Winters.

“Slim clothes for a slim body type,” said Sam knowingly. “And long sleeves to hide your bony knees and elbows.”

I looked in the mirror and was amazed at the transformation. I actually looked… good.

“Sam, how did you do that?” I said in awe, smiling slowly.

“Told you,” said Sam smugly, arms crossed.

I slowly began to trust Sam’s advice more and more over the coming years, until shopping and fashion actually became enjoyable for me. I did some more research into fashion theory, and discovered that Sam was right - it really was, it seemed, how best you showed off what you had.

I had never felt good-looking before. It was nice.

But Sam and August did more than that. August’s family bought me new technology: a really nice cell phone and laptop. I couldn’t stop stammering my thanks, but they waved me off. It really didn’t seem like a big deal to them - it wasn’t a big hole in their budget.

I knew the Dursleys had aspired to greatness by settling in Little Whinging, but how much did August and Samantha’s families make?

At the end of the day, before they dropped me off at the Dursleys’, Sam’s mother turned around and said, “You’re a very nice boy, Darius. You’re welcome over anytime.”

“Same here,” said August’s Dad.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you, ma’am. I’ll take you up on that,” I said, smiling.

And I did. I got to know August’s older brothers, Samantha’s baby sister, their parents, and both of their homes. I came to spend a lot of time with them.

From my friends, I learned to accept gifts and kindness with calm gratefulness.

-

I walked in the house, still smiling, flushed and pleased, carrying bags, and the Dursleys stopped and stared at me.

“What on earth have they done?” Uncle Vernon boomed at last, as Aunt Petunia shrieked.

And fun time was over. I scowled, becoming reserved and frosty. “My friends Samantha and August took me out shopping with their families,” I said, and ducked into the cupboard under the stairs before an argument could start.

The Dursleys, never intent on making me happy, called August and Samantha’s parents the very next day.

“You don’t have to feel so sorry for him. He’s an awful hooligan and your children shouldn’t be around him,” said Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon firmly.

But I smiled when I heard Mrs Burns’ cool response. “He seemed like a nice boy,” she said, her voice dripping contempt, for a moment sounding every bit the rich woman. “We shall continue to treat him that way until he proves himself otherwise. Thank you for your concern. We shall be checking up on him regularly.”

And she hung up.

My aunt and uncle were furious, but there was nothing they could do. They didn’t want to insult such important people or seem overly controlling if it could get out to the outside adult world.

-

August and Samantha’s families even paid for online legal streaming websites for me, and I began to discover my favorite movies and music. 

For movies, I liked mysteries, dramas of all kinds, and dark cult classics. Cartoons were good fodder for my drawing, and a nice little fuck-you to my aunt and uncle in the dark and quiet of my cupboard where they couldn’t see it. I watched cartoons, and I drew and colored my dreams, and I read imaginative fiction, and they didn’t know a damn thing about any of it. I had become an expert in hiding, in getting around stupid rules.

For music, I liked soft, soothing music on one end of the spectrum, and punk and electro-punk rock at the other end of the spectrum. Of course, jazz and classical were also staples for me.

On the art end of things, I joined several online art and blogging websites, posting some of my work for feedback.

So now I had several interests: books, art, music, and movies.

I also watched stand-up comedy online, coming to discover my own dry, sarcastic sense of humor. And I listened to ASMR videos at night, as I had problems falling asleep.

My reputation in school changed again. I was still reserved, intelligent, and artistic, but now I had modern technology and friends - the technology always stowed safely away where Dudley couldn’t reach it or break it without physically assaulting me - and I looked better too. 

Girls began giggling as they passed me in the halls, something which puzzled and annoyed me, even as Samantha dissolved into gales of laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

Darius Potter

My Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia stood me in front of them one day.

“You’re going to earn your keep around here,” said Aunt Petunia crisply. “I’m assigning you around the house chores. No pay. Your pay is being able to live here.”

“And if I ever hear you’re anything less than perfect for your aunt, I’ll beat you myself,” said Uncle Vernon fiercely.

It was retaliation, I knew, for being able to sneak so much past them. They were trying to get revenge in any way they could. But if I were being honest with myself, it probably would have eventually happened anyway.

Yet, inspired by my previous creative successes, I decided to be as artistical and methodical in my cooking, tea-brewing, flower gardening, and cleaning as I was in other areas of my life. Art had taught me perfectionism, the beauty of the right arrangement of items.

What if I brought that sort of focus to around the house chores?

I began taking out from the library gourmet cookbooks and magazines on flower gardening. In no time at all, I had new suggestions and things to try both in the garden and in the kitchen, and I formed a life-long-lasting fondness for tea, tea ceremony, and flower arrangement. My cleaning often took a long time, but it became spotless - in no time at all, I could have passed military muster. 

I also asked questions of my aunt and tailored the garden, for example, to fit her specific requirements. It was fun, like an art commission. She was a good deal more square and traditional than I was in the garden, for example - where I had a secret desire for something a bit more wild, fantastical, colorful, and natural - but in meals we absolutely agreed on the same things. Good, solid, non wheat or dairy food - meat and potatoes, that sort of thing.

My aunt seemed unsure how to feel. Her natural desire was to praise cleanliness and neatness, but she was never afforded the opportunity to yell at me and she did love to do that.

Slowly, this tendency leaked into other parts of my life. During my babysitting times at Mrs Figg’s house, for example, I took to doing chores for her to pass the time, putting her feet up and trying to put some semblance of cleanliness into her home. I even looked after her cats, forming a sort of fondness for them. I became Mrs Figg’s favorite neighborhood child.

It also changed the way I saw my cupboard. As the place was now, it was horribly messy, filled with webs, spiders, and spider’s nests, covered in littered socks. I looked at it one day and decided, hands on my hips, “... This will not do.”

And then I just went on a cleaning rampage.

All the spiders were killed and swept up, the cobwebs taken down. I got brand new black wood drawers and shelving, and arranged all my clothes and things neatly within them. I got a purple bedspread and bedsheets, and my bed was neatly made. I decorated the place with plug-in air fresheners and scented candles, mercilessly throwing out all the things I didn’t want anymore and making sure everything had its proper place.

And then the cupboard was much neater.

I also formed a certain fondness for scented hand lotions. I discovered I liked smelly things. Body washes and bubble baths were nice, too.

I managed to finagle an alarm clock out of my aunt and uncle, so that I could get up early, tend to the front gardens, cook breakfast, and watch the sunrise. It became a peaceful morning ritual for me over my first cup of tea - then I’d take a thermos of tea and lemonade to school with me.

I didn’t get much sleep, but I could run on very little sleep and I found I didn’t mind.

-

The football and track coaches approached me at school one day.

“Potter,” said the football coach, “we’ve noticed your running in phys ed. It’s very good. You’re a fast little kid. Ever thought about trying sports?”

“I’d need a permission slip for them, sir,” I said honestly. “They’re school activities. And my aunt and uncle won’t sign.”

The coach winked. “I’ll call them and talk to them,” he said, swaggering and confident.

I raised my eyebrows skeptically.

-

I walked into the house that afternoon and said, “The football and track coaches are going to call you today and I want you to know I had nothing to do with it.”

My aunt and uncle stared after me as I walked quietly and matter of factly to my cupboard.

Sure enough, the phone rang, and in no time at all my aunt and uncle were arguing with the sports coaches on why I couldn’t join sports. In reality, it was because they wanted Dudley to remain my physical superior, but of course that answer wouldn’t fly with the teachers, so they had to make something up.

“Darius’s health is delicate,” they said. “He just can’t play sports.”

At last, they hung up, and I heard Uncle Vernon mutter, “The boy is delicate anyway.” His tone was scathing. He and his sister, my Aunt Marge, had begun to call me “fey” and “queer” in insulting, derogatory ways whenever she came over to visit and they got to drinking.

Dudley, who picked it up from his family, started doing the same thing.

I looked the terms up curiously on the Internet, and felt immediate disgust. It was the height of stupidity to use homosexuality as an insult and then assign it to a child.

In reality, the Dursleys’ refusal to let me participate in conventional guy’s sports just supported me retreating further and further into the supposedly “feminine” activities they disapproved of so much.

Of course, they were too stupid to figure this out.

-

As if to prove my point, Samantha heard I couldn’t join football and track and she said brightly, “Oh, I know what you can do! I’ve started dancing and figure skating lessons and I need a partner,” she finished in a sing-song voice, wriggling her eyebrows. “My parents would be willing to pay. It’s on weekends, so it would get you out of your house more. They’d be able to give permission - not your aunt and uncle.”

I decided to give it a try, if just to piss off my family. I found another unexpected bonus - the Burns family started feeding me extra meals away from home so I didn’t pass out while dancing or ice skating. I discovered, among other things, that I had a secret weakness for chocolate.

I also discovered that I was very naturally good at any physical activity that required light speediness and grace. This, of course, included dancing and figure skating. In no time at all, my body physically looked better and healthier. I formed a slim, lithe appearance, more toned and graceful. So the hobbies were good for me.

In the process of accepting myself as a dancer and figure skater, I also accepted myself as a mostly feminine person. I relinquished my previous desperate hold on remaining masculine, and realized I’d only ever needed it as a form of gaining acceptance from others.

I learned to accept myself.

I began spending a lot of time with Samantha and formed a greater respect for and confidence with women. My confidence in general had increased, actually. I never stopped being quiet and introverted, but it was the confident kind of quiet.

The realization came in the nick of time, too. Just as I’d accepted myself as a person, strange things began happening around me…


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Darius Potter

It started with my head being shaved.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia got sick of looking at my hair, and one day, in the kitchen, Aunt Petunia forced me down into a chair and slowly shaved off my entire head. It was horrifying and humiliating and Dudley laughed at me for hours. I was completely bald.

I texted my friends, asking them if I could borrow a beanie, and August offered to lend me one. But I still lay in bed, mourning the loss of my hair, wondering if people would talk in school the next day. Usually I didn’t care what people said about me, but for a child this particular reason to talk was… unusually brutal.

Next morning, I woke up to find my hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had shaved it off.

The minute Aunt Petunia saw me, I watched this strange, primal fear pass across her face. Then she started screaming at me, as if I was somehow responsible for my hair regrowing overnight, and my Uncle Vernon roared and locked me inside my cupboard.

Excepting one meal per day and shower and bathroom breaks, I wasn’t allowed out of the cupboard for a week. I spent the time inside, drawing, reading, on my electronics, my mind racing, wondering what the hell was going on. The cupboard door didn’t lock, so I snuck out at night after everyone else had gone to bed and stole more food.

I went back to school, and my friends and teachers caught me up on what I’d missed - on command of my aunt and uncle, I lied and said I’d been sick - and I blew it off as some weird isolated incident.

But then more things began happening. Once a teacher was making fun of me in class and suddenly her hair turned blue. This particularly teacher was very stiff and stuck-up, and the entire class started laughing at her.

Another week in the cupboard.

More and more of these odd incidents began happening, and I was always locked away by my aunt and uncle afterward - they seemed to feel I was somehow personally responsible for these odd happenings. That seemed absurd at first - how could some kid manage to turn a teacher’s hair blue in under five seconds without touching it? - but then I began to think about it critically. I looked back and realized these odd things only ever happened around me, when I was particularly angry, scared, or miserable. I also remembered books I’d read on people with magical powers.

I was just young enough to consider the possibility, and just old enough to act on it.

I discovered a tingling sensation in my body, a prickling up and down the back of my neck, whenever I got upset. Sometimes this sensation would siphon off of some part of my body and go in a certain direction, and in that direction something odd would happen.

After that it was just a matter of controlling the sensation, learning to channel it, suppressing it or using it at will.

I began to wonder if my parents had been like me. There was no way of knowing, as I didn’t even know their names or appearances - there were no photographs of them in the house - but… was that why the Dursleys never seemed to have liked my parents? Was that why they’d caught on and punished me so immediately?

Artistic people with magical powers. No wonder they and the Dursleys hadn’t gotten along.

The only people I shared my budding powers with were Samantha and August, and I’d sworn them to secrecy. The first time I made a pencil float in the air above my hand, I smiled. They were in complete awe. “You’re like an X Man,” said August, extremely impressed. 

They then dedicate themselves to helping me discover just what my magical powers could do.

The possibilities seemed endless. I could alter appearances, making things float or move, make myself float or move, shrink or grow things, vanish things from existence or make them appear out of thin air - though I could not, I found, magically conjure food, water, living beings, or real money. I could even make flowers grow faster and bigger, and bloom.

I treated my magic as I treated my art - with a kind of beautiful, perfectionistic artistry, working on it tirelessly until it was elegant and spotless and lovely. I worked to make my reality match my imagination. In that sense, magic was wonderful. It could make reality imaginative. I tried to put my own unique mark on every piece of magic I created.

But as my magical powers grew, I discovered another odd ability - seeing the future through dreams. I’d always had very odd, vivid, symbolic dreams that seemed to mean something, but as my powers grew, I noticed that slowly they could predict reality more and more. They eventually went from obscure symbolism to outright visions of what the immediate future would contain. And they began happening quite frequently as I worked on noticing them more. I began accurately predicting what would happen to the people around me, what lessons my teachers would teach before they actually began them, and I began to predict when my family were in bad moods and I should stay away from them.

I also discovered I could change the future - if someone made a different decision, my vision wouldn’t come true.

I called this ability “Dreamseeing.” Ironically, I had trouble falling asleep and did not get very much sleep each night. I was a Dreamseer who didn’t sleep.

In any case, I began using my newfound power control to suppress accidental bursts, thus neatly eliminating cupboard punishments. I also began to use it to get what I wanted - stealing extra food and dessert, tripping Dudley or giving him an invisible wedgie when he picked on some poor kid, making Aunt Petunia’s tea or Uncle Vernon’s coffee cold when they were particularly nasty to me. Little things like that. They weren’t obvious enough that anyone would notice or I’d get in trouble for them, but they made me feel better.

I wasn’t sure how powerful I was in comparison to my parents. I didn’t like that I couldn’t do total transfiguration, for example. My power limits frustrated me.

But I also began to use outright non-magical verbal manipulation. I had been hiding my art and magic all this time, and I had learned not a small amount of manipulative ability from the ever-popular Samantha… I now decided now to flex my manipulative muscles myself.

-

“Aunt Petunia,” I said one day, sitting at the kitchen table, because she would be easier, “I’ve noticed my friends and their families coming over more and more. What if someone notices I sleep in a cupboard?”

I framed the question as innocent, but my aunt froze in front of the stove.

“People have just been talking,” I said, shrugging. “My teachers are wondering why all these years you’ve supported my music but never bought me my own instruments. People keep asking if we have money problems.”

My aunt paled.

“I just thought you should know,” I said obediently, and went back to my food.

In just a few short minutes, after Uncle Vernon came home and they talked, I got my own real bedroom and my own instruments. The instruments were inexpensive: a tiny bedroom-sized piano, a relatively inexpensive but sturdy violin. But here’s the deal with the bedroom.

The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for visitors, usually Aunt Marge; one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia; one for Dudley; one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t fit in his first bedroom.

This last room, the smallest room for spare unwanted and broken things, was the one I was given. I was getting too big for the cupboard anyway.

I cleared all of Dudley’s broken items out of the way and set-up shop, so to speak. The black shelving and cabinets entered the bedroom and my friends bought me a few expanded additions, the purple bedspread and sheets went on my bed, my technology had its own little corner, some of my drawings went up on the walls, my instruments took up two corners diagonally across from each other, and I put a collage of photographs of myself with my friends and favorite teachers on one wall. Window curtains were put in, scented candles and plug in air fresheners were scattered around the room, and everything was made clean and neat.

My books and favorite art pieces went under my bed, as before. My door was always kept locked when I wasn’t there, padlocked with myself owning the key. Aunt Petunia called me “odd and paranoid”, but she was nosy and my cousin used to love breaking my things when we were little. I had more than one reason not to let other people into my room. I even cleaned and vacuumed it myself.

Still, I looked around myself in satisfaction. This bedroom was mine. And I’d actually talked my family into getting it for me.

I gained more confidence in my knowledge of psychology and my ability to get people to do or think what I wanted. I also became better at spotting fellow manipulators.


	7. Chapter 7

7.

Darius Potter

The Dursleys always left me behind with Mrs Figg for Dudley’s birthday celebrations, and they never celebrated mine. But since I had friends, I got a birthday celebration anyway.

For my tenth birthday, me, Sam, August, and their parents (to supervise) went out to a trampoline park. We spent a few hours jumping around like crazy, and then ran around the nearby park playing Pokemon Go. I always got to choose the outing on days like these, and my tenth birthday was tons of fun.

At the end of the day, they gave me my gift - they had paid for me to take local swimming and bicycling lessons for the month of August. (My birthday was July 31st.)

“Oh my God, thank you so much!” I said, looking down at the little slips of paper, delighted. I would be the oldest person there and I didn’t even care.

“Happy birthday, Darius,” said Samantha, smiling and hugging me.

“We know the Dursleys never bothered with any of that stuff for you,” August added.

I had the best friends in the world.

As we were heading back to the car, a bald man in a very long, purple coat came up to me in the street and shook my hand. Then he just walked off.

“... Do you know him, Darius?” 

“No. You know I never know them,” I laughed. “Oddly dressed people are always coming up to me and shaking my hand. And they’re always dressed in either purple or green. I have the weirdest luck with homeless old hobos ever!”

-

And so I had my life. I had Sam, August, Mr Mackenzie, Miss Kwan, and Mrs Cheeney. I had the library, the after school arts program, and my weekend dancing and skating hobbies.

I had my own bedroom, nice belongings, and an appearance I was proud of. I got excellent grades in school. Most of my really good food and chocolate, I got from Samantha. I had discovered my magic and gained control of it.

I was assigned to do plenty of chores, but I’d learned to adapt to them and even enjoy them. I also looked after little old Mrs Figg and her cats, so sometimes my work did not go unappreciated.

My family didn’t like me, but they never had, and otherwise I was happy. I had formed a good life for myself. I was confident in and had accepted myself as I was.

And so when Dudley’s eleventh birthday came, I was no longer the downtrodden, friendless, ugly little boy I had once been.


	8. Chapter 8

8.

Darius Potter

It started out the same as always. I woke up to the beeping of my alarm, got dressed in a nice long-sleeved black shirt and a pair of black slacks, brushed hair (arranging the mess on top of my head carefully) and teeth, walked out into the kitchen… and found a table-suffocating mound of presents had been placed there in the middle of the night.

Oh, shit, yeah, that was right. It was Dudley’s eleventh birthday. It looked as though he’d gotten a new laptop he’d break, a new racing bike he’d never use, and a second bedroom television to replace the first one he’d put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled. (I’d actually had to convince my cousin to get rid of a broken television.) Among other things, anyway. Dudley’s birthdays were always overkill.

I made myself some tea, and walked out into the front garden in the dewy dawn to watch the sunrise. I sipped at my tea and enjoyed the silence and the beautiful spectrum of colors and shades across the sky, above the boxy white houses of Privet Drive, and once the sun had risen, I tended to the flower beds. They were all very traditional English garden. Then I wiped myself off, put on a bit more scented hand lotion, and walked out into the kitchen to get breakfast ready. It was a three-day weekend and it was Dudley’s birthday, so I decided on coffee (for Uncle Vernon), tea (for me and Aunt Petunia; Darjeeling, a compromise between my aunt’s desire for tradition and my own desire for adventure), orange juice (for Dudley), and a frittata. A frittata was somewhere between an omelette and a quiche. Mine had asparagus, yellow onion, white mushroom, packed spinach, coconut oil, bacon, and eight eggs.

Aunt Petunia came out first. She saw that I was making breakfast, sniffed because there was nothing to scold, and her heels clacked back upstairs to go wake her husband and son. Uncle Vernon came down next, button-up shirt straining over swelling belly, and he barked, “Comb your hair!” by way of a morning greeting.

“I did,” I said calmly, still working on breakfast.

“Don’t you back-talk me, boy! It doesn’t look like it! And make sure to clean all that up after you’re done.” He waved in the general direction of the mess I’d made of the kitchen. “And where’s my coffee and morning newspaper?!”

“On its way,” I said, robot-like, suppressing a few choice things I could say, and I walked out onto the front step. I took up the morning newspaper, and a cup of coffee from the kitchen, and placed them in front of Uncle Vernon, who harrumphed and opened the paper irritably. He was henceforth Not To Be Disturbed.

Occasionally, I disturbed him anyway just to annoy him.

It was always a bit disheartening to put all that work into making a meal for my relatives only to have it taken for granted so, still irritated, I put the plates of breakfast on the kitchen table carefully around the presents, put tea and orange juice next to Aunt Petunia’s and Dudley’s places, and then retreated upstairs with my own plate of breakfast and cup of tea. Breakfast was the only meal in which I was allowed as much food as Dudley and I wanted to enjoy it in the privacy of my own bedroom.

Besides, I knew how breakfast would work anyway. It happened the same every year. Dudley would count his presents, count incorrectly, insist there wasn’t enough presents, be corrected, threaten to throw a tantrum and insist there still wasn’t enough presents, and then be catered to by his mother and father. He would then rip open the cornucopia of gaudy presents given to him each birthday - today’s count should total at least at thirty six, and if there wasn’t something made of genuine gold in there it wasn’t a real birthday - and proceed to discard or break most of them sometime within the next few weeks. The broken presents would build up in his room until he couldn’t enjoy it in there anymore. He would then throw another tantrum and the broken presents would be removed for him.

And they said I didn’t know my cousin.

I locked my bedroom door, and then proceeded to vent with lots of angry art on my bed for a while, munching on frittata and sipping tea until I calmed down and began to enjoy the process of creation, letting my emotions run out, letting go of them with a sense of peace.

There was a sharp knock on my bedroom door and I looked up.

“Mrs Figg has broken her leg,” said Aunt Petunia through the door. “She doesn’t want you to come over today. Marge is too far away and she doesn’t like you in any case, Yvonne is on vacation in Majorca, and your little friends are both at a resort with their families for the three day weekend.”

It sounded like she thought all those people had a lot of nerve, not being here when she needed them to be.

“You’re not staying in the house and wrecking it by yourself, so you’re coming to the zoo with us,” Aunt Petunia finished. “Come downstairs. Piers and Dudley are already waiting down in the hall.” She walked away.

I sat there frozen in a state of surprise. I wasn’t sure how to feel. On one hand, I’d never been to the zoo before. On the other hand, I’d be going with the Dursleys and Piers.

Either way, I shrugged, stood, stowed my art underneath the loose floorboard below my bed, put my iPod and iPhone in my pockets, and headed downstairs to meet with the Dursleys and Piers at the foot of the grand staircase.

-

Uncle Vernon pulled me aside and threatened to flay me to within an inch of my life if I “paraded any of my oddness” on Dudley’s birthday. He meant no accidental magic. I stood there icily, glaring at him, until at last he stormed off in a huff.

After that, we all got in the car and headed for the Surrey City Zoo.

I texted August and Samantha back and forth during the drive. We joked about all the new presents Dudley had to ruin, and how clueless my aunt and uncle were when it came to my magic. Dudley and Piers chattered on about some new video game in the seat next to me, and Uncle Vernon complained about things in one long, multi-subject rant to Aunt Petunia as he drove. (Announcing his narrow-minded and largely negative opinions to the world was one of Uncle Vernon’s hobbies. His favorite topic of complaint was me, however.)

It was a sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance. I ordered before they could hurry me away, thereby forcing them to buy me a Fudgesicle. I felt rather smug about it, too.

We walked around all morning, looking at the different animals on display. I preferred to silently observe the animals with interest, reading the plaques that came with each enclosure. Dudley and Piers were again different. They spent the first half of the morning shouting, “LOOK, IT’S A TIGER! LOOK, IT’S A LION!” They spent the second half of the morning complaining that the animals weren’t doing enough “cool stuff.” 

We ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his Knickerbocker Glory didn’t have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him another one and I was allowed to finish the first.

After lunch, we went to the reptile house. Aunt Petunia stayed outside, but everyone else went in. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It was a gleaming brown Brazilian boa constrictor, longer than a large car length and thicker than a tree branch.

Dudley spent a few minutes with his nose pressed against the window, ordering his father to bang on the glass until the snake moved. Dudley whined and Uncle Vernon knocked, but the snake was uncooperative. It sat completely still with its head facing the wall. I admired its silent, miserable rebellion.

Dudley at last shuffled off, moaning about boredom. Piers stood there for a few minutes longer, looking lingeringly at the snake, but finally he trailed off, heading to more interesting territory. I moved in front of the boa constrictor’s tank, feeling rather sorry for it. It must be a hard life, being stuck in a tiny tank, sleeping all day.

Then suddenly, something strange happened. The boa constrictor turned around, and raised its head until its eyes were on a level with mine. It winked. 

“... Did you just wink at me?” I asked disbelievingly.

The boa constrictor hissed out a laugh. “Just wanted to see what you’d do, amigo. My God, are your kin always that stupid?”

“No,” I said, like talking to a snake was something I did every day, “sometimes they’re worse. Sorry about that. They’re only distant relatives - I don’t remember my parents.”

“Neither do I,” said Amigo gloomily. “I was born and raised in this stupid tank.” He had a low male hissing sort of voice. “So everyone could gawk at me.”

“It’s a hard life,” I admitted. “Hey - do you know - how am I talking to you?”

“You are a Speaker,” said Amigo in surprise. “I sensed it when I first beheld you. Animals know these things, you know.”

I reached back, surprised - and felt that prickling up and down the back of my neck. Of course. Magic.

“Have you ever met any others like me?” I asked quickly, excitedly.

“No,” said Amigo, shaking his head. “I have heard only rumors. But if you’d like me to relay those rumors…” He suddenly gave a sly, sideways smile. “You could always use your powers to let me out of this tank.”

I laughed and Amigo scowled. “Sorry, Amigo,” I said, “but you’d eat somebody or be caught long before you reached Brazil. I feel bad for you. But not that bad.”

I wasn’t exactly someone you bullshitted easily.

Amigo was starting to attract attention, so I stepped back into the shadows as people charged forward to gawp at the reared snake. I looked casual, hands in my pockets, but I was thoughtful. Snake speak. Another manifestation of my powers.

I could never understand Aunt Marge’s dogs, and no other zoo animal’s language had been mysteriously deconstructed for me. For some reason, it must be only snakes that did it.

How interesting.

-

A few days later, once school had started again, I sat down across the library table determinedly from August and Samantha. 

“Okay, I have it all figured out,” I said. I'd had time to think about it and come up with a plan. “I’ll speak each word in this dictionary to a picture of a snake. We’ll come up with a series of symbols dictating what each sound is, and then we’ll write down what word each collection of sounds means. We’ll move from words to grammar.”

Samantha plunked down a brown journal in which we would scribble down our complete study of snake speak.

“I’m going to teach you guys snake language,” I said decisively.

And so we began. This time, speaking softly to the snake picture inside the encyclopedia, I could hear it - the strange hissing that was all anyone else could understand. 

-

That night, I had a very strange dream. A giant envelope decorated with the insignia of a castle came looming up before me. I saw two shadowy male figures in windows within the castle.

I woke up feeling like I was waiting for something.

I sat up and tried to piece this together. A letter. A letter either portraying or leading to a castle… in which there were two men who must be important to my future.

A letter would be coming soon, that much made sense, and it would lead to me meeting new people, including two men… but I couldn’t understand how a castle was going to factor into my future. 

Sometimes I really did wish my Seeing Dreams made more sense.


End file.
